


Margaritae Aquae Sapientiae Carnalis

by Charname



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Foreskin Play, Masturbation, Other, Oviposition, Water Beads, Water Pearls, masturbatory fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 09:10:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charname/pseuds/Charname
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock uses strange masturbation fantasies, and even stranger masturbatory aids.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Margaritae Aquae Sapientiae Carnalis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ellie_hell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellie_hell/gifts).



> This was originally posted over on the kink meme, for [an ostensibly anonymous prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21766.html?thread=128623878#t128623878).
> 
> I want to give thanks to [Ellie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ellie_hell), [Kirk](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anonbach), and [Spock](http://anonspock.livejournal.com/) for their constant encouragement. Ellie, I thank you specifically for sharing news of (and enthusiasm for) the wondrous existence of water pearls. Kirk, I thank you specifically for your regular reminders of how much this fandom needed fic in which Sherlock masturbates with water pearls. Spock, I thank you specifically for your invaluable aid in making this fic’s title as cultured as it could possibly be. It’s always you, modsters; you keep me not quite right.

It starts as most kinks do: perfectly innocently

There is a case. There is a wedding. There is a threat to the groom. Sherlock ends up in a reception hall, with his shirt-sleeves rolled to his elbows and his fingertips grasping victory. It starts with a flood of victorious endorphins as Sherlock solves the case, as he figures out that the item the groom is so concerned with is concealed in the hall, in the bottom of a vase, in this particular vase, filled with silk flowers and water pearls. It starts when Sherlock thrusts his hand in, aware of but not acknowledging the confused stares directed toward him. It starts when the pearls slide over his skin, move around and over him as he pushes through them, eyes on his goal. It’s a unique feeling, memorable; he prefers it to the boring plastic rectangle he’s reaching for.

The pearls shift aside, accommodating him perfectly, tumbling into the space he’s left in his wake when he grasps his goal and pulls out. There are accolades for his success. He’s ‘brilliant’ and ‘fantastic’ and ‘a life-saver’ and that contents him, but he doesn’t stop moving his slick fingers together, lost in the memory of that strange sensation. 

Water pearls aren’t difficult to acquire. They’re easily bloated. He runs his fingers through a bowl of them, letting them scatter over the back of his hand, twisting his tendons to control their movements. 

There’s nothing impractical about it. There are plenty of experiments they’ll be useful for. 

He keeps the bowl in his room. He keeps them transparent, covered in water. Nobody would know they were there; no one would observe.

He can see them, when he makes the effort. The slight curves in the water are only noticeable with conscientious observation. No one else is perceptive enough to spot them; they are for him alone.

In the depths of boredom, Sherlock retreats to his bedroom and swirls his fingers through the pearls. He immerses his hand up to the wrist, and thinks of a new sort of experiment.

He curves his hand and brings it toward the edge of the bowl. The increased visibility of the orbs pressed against the glass is aesthetically striking. Every delicate little pearl is a point of resistance against his skin. 

He knows what he wants to do, so he does it. He lifts pearls out of the bowl by the handful, dumping them on his sheets. Their wetness spreads, soaking the fabric, but he doesn’t care, doesn’t stop until he has enough.

He takes a final handful and drops it on the pile, pulling his sheets up around it and curving them into a sack. He twists the fabric into a more easily manageable shape, one that he can hold with a single hand without worrying about it bursting open. Sherlock holds the entrance with the curve of one hand, and he presses the index and middle fingers of the other hand inside. 

Each pearl is a cold individual, noticeably frigid and wet against his skin. They will warm to him as his flesh adjusts to them. Their shift against each other is smooth and slick; he wants to fill a tub and immerse himself in them, but starting small is a wise idea. It’s a practical test run.

He pulls one pearl out of the sack, moves the sphere absently over his lips, and presses his tongue out against it. Expected textural experience, boring taste.

He pulls the pearl away and squeezes it between thumb and forefinger, watching as it flattens, then splits apart and crumbles. He drops the pieces beside the bowl, remembering how much pressure was needed for the destruction of a pearl without perceptible surface irregularities. He picks another one out of the bowl, marks it with his thumbnail before squeezing, and that one is much easier to destroy. He crushes the crumbs in his fist. The resulting paste isn’t texturally displeasing either. 

He wipes his hand clean on the sheet and unfastens his trousers. He’s already erect enough to shove himself into his pouch of pearls. Efficient.

He grasps himself, adjusts and moves, and _yes_ that is fantastic.

Inserting himself into the sack is almost painful. Instinct tells him to pull back, to retreat from the freezing – much colder than they had felt to his hands – foreign shapes. Intellect forces him to press on, to press further into them.

Intellect is always victorious. 

He hunches himself forward. His breath shivers with the rest of him. His prick shrinks in self-defence, but not enough to deter him, and not enough that the forward thrust of his hips can’t make up for it. 

He forces himself in, to the base, and stays there, unmoving apart from one hand pressing up and down along the lengthened side of the sack.

He gathers himself and starts moving properly, slow strokes in and out. 

His body adapts quickly. Cold turns to warmth, becomes a temperature indistinguishable from his own heat. He swells in it, further, as the pearls create a sensation almost like suction, jostled as they are by his movement. It is frighteningly close to perfection. 

His thrusts increase in speed and decrease in rhythm. He reaches the edge, but he doesn’t teeter there, he lingers. He moves his free hand more frantically, squeezing and twisting the sack in a way that he can feel delightfully, but it’s not enough. Prior experience tells him that it’s not going to be enough, that it’s only a matter of time until his body loses interest in the proceedings and this stops feeling pleasurable. He is going to stop being a man seeking orgasm, and start being one hopelessly thrusting into a gathered up sheet full of water pearls without the hope of release, and isn’t that depressing? At least it was interesting.

He gives a few final thrusts, but no, he’s wilting. He stays buried amongst the pearls. It still feels nice; it’s simply inadequate. Frustrating. He squeezes at the bag around him again, and even if it’s not as gratifying as he’d hoped, the massage is pleasant. 

The massage _is_ pleasant, very pleasant. He lets himself relax into it, focussing on finding ways to make it more pleasant. It’s a twist and a push that make it unexpectedly pleasant, or pleasant in a way that had been expected and then forsaken. The movement pulls one pearl apart from the others, traps it in flesh, pushes it underneath, between foreskin and glans. 

It has a reinvigorating effect.

Sherlock pulls out of the sack, simply to see the shape of the sphere under his skin. It’s peculiar. 

He pokes at it with a finger, first intending to force it out, and then, reconsidering, rolling it deeper. 

Sherlock releases the sack of pearls, letting it fall open into a pile of spheres and soaked sheets. He picks another pearl and slips it in next to the first. It’s not terrifically arousing, but the sensation continues to be interesting. 

He takes a third pearl, and really, they are such strange things. What is it that they remind him of? Spiders’ egg sacs? Something similar, surely.

Sherlock stares down at where the pearls distend his skin. He rubs at the flesh before adding another. Does seeing how many he can contain qualify as a scientific endeavour? 

Frog’s eggs. They look like a frog’s eggs. Except they’re not, they don’t, that is an embarrassingly inaccurate description; they’re alien. 

And yes, why not? If he’s going to use them like this he might as well fantasise about something. It should add to the experience. 

Take the water pearls as alien eggs. An exercise in exploratory thinking. And then what?

If there were aliens, they would undoubtedly want him to carry their young. Any species capable of interplanetary travel would obviously value intelligence. Sherlock would stand elevated above the mentally mediocre masses. He would be specifically, carefully selected for this. 

The alien overlords would appreciate his brilliance. 

Would they be invaders? Plausible. Aliens abducting humans to carry their young would be ill-received. 

They would have abducted him. Flattered as he would be by their attention, he would have resisted this.

So what do they do? Inject him with an immobilizing toxin to keep him pliant while they fill him? No, that complicates the activity at hand. Request his help? For this? The fantasy is enjoyable, but the prospect of consenting to becoming a broodmare is more discomforting than that of being forced into it. Intriguing. 

An alien species is an alien species. Advanced technology, peculiar biology, he can worry about the specifics when he’s next deathly bored enough to analyse his wank-fantasies. The aliens are capable of mind-control. They use it. 

The aliens select him, and abduct him, and, oh, it is his intelligence that makes him vulnerable to their control. Logical. A fail-safe assurance that they’ve chosen a carrier of worth.

He enjoys it because they make him enjoy it. 

The aliens take him to their mated, insectoid queen and her long, slim ovipositor.

He slides two fingers beneath his foreskin and pulls them apart just enough. It stretches, but not uncomfortably. There is just enough space to slide a pearl between his fingers, to guide it down inside him. He uses his free hand to roll a single pearl down the chute. Then he does two at once.

He fills the space between his fingers, pulls out, and reinserts. He can’t ignore the worsening stretch as... as the ovipositor fills him. His growing arousal leaves less space for the eggs, and the eggs spread his skin too tightly over them, but that’s fine. Slight discomfort can’t matter; he has room for more. They won’t accept reprieve until he’s filled.

The queen increases the pace of the oviposition. He’s full before he’s ready, before he can take as many as he’d hoped, as many as they had made him want. The queen removes her ovipositor, filling the space it leaves vacated with a few final spheres. 

Every movement of the eggs inside him sends a thrill of sensation through him. He can feel the possibility of orgasm on every breath.

He _can’t_ crush the eggs, but he can touch himself. They’re not so fragile, as long as he’s gentle.

What do the eggs need? Human warmth. Human motion. The barely perceptible stirring of his pulse. The oils from his skin. More.

Gently, gently, he rubs his hand along his length. The other holds him closed, as impassible as possible but not painfully tight, with a rhythmic twist that jostles the eggs exquisitely.

He adds stroke to stroke to stroke and he comes, letting semen drip out over his fingers, but no pearls. He rubs the worst of the mess into his thigh, then releases his penis from both hands, letting pearls tumble out onto the bed. Some don’t make it out with the others in the exodus, but he finds that pushing them out is less uncomfortable than letting them rest inside him. 

Not one of them, he is pleased to note, has been crushed.

He gathers them up and sets them aside to be cleaned before being added back to the bowl. Or no, he won’t clean them, but he will keep them separate. This has been useful; now he can examine the effects of the substances to which they’ve been exposed. It probably won’t be profitable knowledge, but he’ll have it.

Sherlock will need to change the his sheets. The inconvenience is worth it. While water pearls evidently aren’t the most efficient masturbatory aides, the fertile fantasies they’ve fostered have proven exquisitely effective.


End file.
